Diary Entries
by Luciole-leSolange
Summary: Francis couldn't bring himself to speak of what happened to him during WWII. So he decided writing was a good alternative.
1. July 16th

A-ahh hm. Well. This is a journal entry from Francis' journal after the end of WWII when Arthur is trying to rehabilitate him. It's… from my own personal head cannon- so stand alone I'm sorry if you don't understand it ;n;

Head-cannon: During the French Occupation Francis was kept bound and blind-folded in a dark, dank basement. His blind-fold never got removed until after Paris was freed. Why? They wanted to.

Anywayyyyy onto the fic! (forgive the terrible mellow dramatic speech.)

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July 16th, 1945

Memories of my country's occupation and my own imprisonment still haunt the forefront of my mind even in my recent freedom. My wounds still ache and my protruding ribs do not allow me to forget the experiences I suffered there. But even as I write this- I finger one scar in wonderment- The scar that will forever remind me I am nothing less than a nation- Less than immortal.

The scar that marks the very day I died- And yet- God or whatever force that created us would not take me from this earth.

I remember the day I obtained this scar with perfect clarity. I sat in the same chair that I had been in for a terribly long time, my eyes still covered with a crude blindfold, and my mouth stuffed with a disgusting gag to prevent me from keeping everyone awake with either my sobs or screams.

The tapping had started again- I had learned to recognize the pattern by this point and I could determine that this set of tapping was not of Ludwig's or his soldiers, but one that I had only heard when I was about to be particularly badly beaten. A chill ran down my spine as I attempted to swallow, a feat impossible due to both the gag and my dry mouth. This tapping never spoke- So I could not discern the attitude of this him or… her I suppose it could have been. The other 'tappings' I could read- they spoke to me; sometimes they would have an apologetic tone and sometimes they would have one of enjoyment, a few times I could even recognize the drunken slur that many German soldiers seemed to have. But at least I knew what was about to happen to me, with this one- I never knew. I knew the pattern well.

Even now, safe and sound in this small cozy cottage with Arthur curled up next to me, the rhythmic tap, tap, tap of boots on the cold cement floor continues to haunt me. He's trying to help, I know he is; but I can only wonder if he even knows what I've been through. He's been lucky- no, strong- he's been very strong. He hasn't been forced down on his knees before the Reich and forced to serve another, he just doesn't know. I'm glad he doesn't.

That day was the first time he spoke to me. He spoke in German like the others, so I couldn't understand what he was saying at first; I knew the tongue, but refused to understand it. Funny how you can make yourself forget a language when you do not want to hear what is said. But then he started talking in English and all too soon I caught onto what was going to happen to me. And… beyond my better judgment I put a name, a face to that tapping that day.

"So Franny, ready to die yet?"

Was all he said to me, was all he needed to say to me to trigger the instant realization of just who had been giving me some of the worse beatings in my stay. I felt my hands start to tremble behind me and I wished, I prayed, that he would take the gag out of my mouth. The German- no, the Prussian that I heard walking in front of me that I had once called 'friend', who I had held so dear, was responsible for this? I knew that wars and a nation's duties came before personal feelings but even Ludwig had managed to take some pity on me; I knew he didn't enjoy this, it was simply his job. Like all soldiers.

But there was no mistaking the pleasure in Gilbert's voice that day- the pure enjoyment dripping from his words. He wanted to do this, he was happy to see me suffer and to squirm underneath his mud-caked boot.

He yanked the gag from my mouth, and as soon as I was able to speak again I asked him a simple, weak, watery question.

"Why?"

And he answered me, just as simply:

"Because, Franny, It's fun."

One of the things I pride myself for is being able to read a person well, even just by voice. I normally can pick out lies easily; but, this time I told myself he was lying. There was no way any human being, any nation could willingly do this to another and not feel remorse, any sympathy- not if they still had a soul.

So I did the most sensible thing I could think of at the time, I bowed my head, and I started to cry.

"Oh c'mon Fran," he said. "It'll be over soon right?"

I could hear the cold, mechanical click of a German Lugar in my ear and the only thought that ran through my head was whether he would shoot me between the eyes or through the heart.

My mind could still visualize the blazing white hair, the cocky red eyes and the marred, pale skin that made up Gilbert Beilschmidt. He had never been an overly kind person, and he could get violent at times when his 'awesomeness' was challenged, but never, not once did I ever think him capable of something of this magnitude.

The Prussian yanked up my dirty, matted hair before I could think anything else and I felt the cold steel press up under my chin hard. I heard a small click that I knew to be the hammer of the gun, now ready to fire.

"Please Gil…" Was all I managed to say, and to my great surprise it worked and the cold metal left my skin as soon as it had come.

Quiet laughter echoed through the small, dank room and I could picture the smirk outlining Gilbert's features perfectly. I still can at this moment, and it sends chills through me. I don't think that image will ever leave me, even if it was purely mental.

And I had a right to be afraid because within the next few seconds a loud, earsplitting bang echoed through the room, replacing the laughter with dead silence. I could feel nothing; nothing but the warm, sticky liquid seeping into my mouth and into the front of my shirt.

I was dead. And Gilbert Beilschmidt had killed me.


	2. July 17th and 18th

July 17th, 1945

"No Angleterre, you cannot see it and no, I will not tell you where I 'ave hidden it," I repeated for what must have been the twentieth time that morning.

The Englishman's pleading face had quickly turned sour and hard again and he huffed turning away. I could have sworn I caught something about me being an 'ungrateful frog' or something similar to that. I didn't tell him that I am actually very grateful; it would only worry him more and God knows we don't need that on top of everything else as of late.

Yesterday's entry was- Shocking, to me to say the least. I have re-read it a dozen times but I still can't convince myself that I wrote it; oh yes, I remember it all well but to put it down on paper… to make a situation so blunt and to start off with my- _death_? I truly wonder if Arthur might have slipped something into my coffee to make my speech a little looser.

But it is written, and I dare not try and rip it out for fear Arthur would find it.

I suppose I should've started with the beginning, when Ludwig first took me away at the battle of Dunkirk. I could blame Angleterre or blame his boss but I don't see the point of it. Yes, the British did leave me behind to surrender to the Germans but I do not blame them. It was my own decision not to join them on the boats; I could not leave my troops behind to surrender without me. I would never abandon my people. But, many of my people managed to escape with Angleterre and his troops, and for that I am grateful.

It took less than a month after our surrender at Dunkirk for Germany to accept our surrender and not more than a month after that- the Vichy Government was created under my new boss, Pétain. I lost a lot of respect for that man after that, the once great war hero now turned nothing more than a Nazi co-operator. He did, after all, - for lack of a better word – _whore_ me out to protect what little freedom my people had left. Which, I might add, was taken by Germany not too long after the agreement was signed.

After being handled by the German military, my own new forming government, and back into Ludwig's hands I was not pleased to say the least. The first few months of my occupation were- difficult, if I had to describe it in one word. I was constantly moved around, from occupied regions of my own country, to the German border, to Berlin itself.

I was beyond relieved to see they were not destroying my once proud cities- but that relief quickly faded when I started to see the large red, white, and black swastikas hanging from them. My own cities sickened me with how quickly they were conforming to the Reich.

I was slowly starting to feel the life drain out of the streets of my cities and out of my very veins. But I couldn't give up yet; I couldn't surrender myself to them. No matter the opinion certain other countries or people may have of me, I am a very proud man. I am proud of my nation, of my people, and I would rather suffer the consequences of rebelling than become a dog to anyone.

But a **dog** I did become.

_/Francis' writing seems to becoming less neat and careful than it normally is. Almost as if his hand is shaking. There's a few water stains between the pages, sticking them together./_

July 18th, 1945

I am tired of Angleterre, I am tired of this rehabilitation, and most of all I am tired of being _sober_ any longer. So I won't be. I managed to find Arthur's stash of whiskey and he's out right now doing Lord only knows what. He said something about food.

So here I am, sitting in a tiny cottage in some rural area of France writing in a diary and taking rather generous swigs of whiskey. I miss the brothel, really. I had managed to hide out there for a few months before Arthur found me and dragged me here for 'help'. Like I need him.

Like I need anyone!

They abandon me when I need them most, leave me to **ROT** for four years in a stinking, moldy basement and then expect to come back and say 'Oh I'm **SORRY**?'. I think I'm going to try to count all the times Arthur has said sorry already and take a shot… although I doubt there's enough whiskey left in the bottle now.

But really, he abandons me at Dunkirk, full well knowing that the Nazis are going to capture me and what does he do? Nothing! Ludwig, Gilbert, and God knows who else had their way with me and I am just suppose to forget? I can hear the other nations right now – Arthur included probably –

'**He wanted it!' **

'**He's earned it for being a tease!' **

'**What's new? He's always been a whore!'**

But Arthur, Arthur he's the worst of them all. He's a spoiled little British brat. That's what Arthur is. Nothing but. A damned spoiled naïve British _gentleman_. Oh yes, that's Arthur. Conasse.

You know what he did today? He told me I was nothing but a spoiled brat. That I should suck it up and stop pitying myself when others have had a worse time than I have. That what has happened to me 'wasn't so bad'. But… But the thing that scares me-

What if he's right? Am I just blowing this up…?

No. Fuck this journal. I should just burn it right now, go back to my Paris brothel and drown myself in wine and women. Then I won't have to think about any of this, I can just forget again.

So… why isn't the booze working now?

_/The entry stops here, though there is obviously more to it, but it is to smeared to be legible./_


	3. Angleterre?

Running his fingertips tentatively over the front of the leather journal, Arthur hesitated. The Brit knew full well he shouldn't be doing this, he shouldn't even have picked up Francis' journal, but he was too worried not to. The frog wasn't opening up to him and he had refused to speak one word about anything that had happened. England just had to know what was going on in the Frenchman's mind, and the journal must have something in it that could aid him in helping the git. But he was wasting time, France was asleep, even though he was tossing and turning and it didn't look the least bit restful, and he needed to read his entry before he woke up. Arthur opened the freshly-tattered cover slowly, eyes trained on the elegantly scrawled cursive.

"No," England hissed quietly, knuckles white as they clench the journal he had found on the rooftop, hidden under a loose shingle, "No, NO!" Francis had lied. That damned French bastard lied to him; Arthur had hot tears in the corners of his eyes as he stared at the roof under him. France had been saying he was fine the entire day. He had been complaining about his stomach and a headache, insisting he just needed to stay in bed –away from Arthur- and that it was just a common bug he had had for a little while. But the damned frog had never met his eyes, not once did the dull blue meet his and he should've _known_. Francis was a terrible liar and yet, he didn't even see it.

He looked back at the partly closed window, just barely able to see Francis tossing slightly under the covers, illuminated by the pale moonlight. _No wonder you are such a wreck… bastard,_ he let out a quiet breath, sniffing in the cold night air and setting the barely-used journal on the roof-top again, pushing it away from him. Despite being less than a week old, it was a still little worse for wear - the cover scratched and a few of the pages ruined from some liquid - since France had left it outside for the past few days after his drunken binge.

Arthur glared weakly at the journal, bringing up his legs to his chest and shivering slightly as a gust of cold air blew by. The Frenchman wasn't getting much better, and looking through his few entries it was easy to see why. How could anyone get over something like this?

The Englishman rubbed the back of his neck and hung his head tiredly. "And I told him it was all in his head… _fuck_, why did you just agree?" he mumbled quietly to himself as the guilt washed over him in waves.

Arthur had gotten absolutely livid at the Frenchman the day he had found him on the roof, drunk out of his ever-living mind. He had yelled, drug him back inside. France had gone completely mad the moment Arthur had touched him, only causing the Brit to shout louder and pull harder. The Englishman had even threatened to dump him off at some hospital and just let real doctors take care of him so he could go back home to England. No wonder Francis had sobered up so quickly.

_I can't believe I threatened to leave,_ his hands moved up, clutching the sandy-blonde hair tightly. He thought he might actually pull it out; this all was just too much to handle. He wished he could make out the rest of the last entry, surely Francis had talked more about his time there- hopefully it wasn't just bad-mouthing Arthur, or saying how he was right for calling him a spoiled brat. Christ, why did he call him that?

"Bloody hell Francis! I was just being stupid!" he grit out finally, feeling a few hairs separate from his head with his tighter grip. He slammed his eyes shut, willing his breathing to even out. England didn't deserve to cry- He had lived through the Blitz and had the scars to prove it; but his experiences were nothing like France's.

"_Angleterre_?"

Arthur wiped his eyes on the back of his arm quickly before turning around, looking up at the haggard Frenchman standing in the window, obviously shaking. "O-oy- frog, I… thought you were asleep," he said half-heartedly, swallowing slightly and attempting to inch away from the journal without drawing attention to it.

Francis stared at Arthur, gripping the window frame tight as he saw the journal next to the Englishman. "You read it," his voice came out weak and he sounded almost on the verge of tears. _Fuck, don't cry_.

England was about to lie, to tell France it was just a coincidence that the journal was a few inches from his hand; until his green eyes met the dull, dark blue that looked so broken he couldn't even think about deceiving him. "Yes, I did."

"How- how could you? Angleterre I…" Francis paused, closing his eyes tight as his chin started to tremble. "I trusted you!"

Arthur turned back around, looking off at the dark horizon. "I know, I know- I'm sor-"

"Take me back to Paris," France said quietly, interrupting the Brit's apology.

Reaching over, Arthur picked up the book and stood up, shaking his head. "I can't do that France. You still aren't well, you need to get better," he said as he started to walk back to the window, offering the dark journal to the Frenchman.

Francis shook his head, taking the book quickly and clutching it tightly to his chest. _Right over that blasted scar no wonder he had locked the door behind him to change, he must be covered in scars_. "Non, take me back. I do not need help from… from you," he said evenly, starting back over to his bed.

Arthur watched him start to grab the few things he had come there with. The Brit had let Francis borrow his clothes, which fit surprisingly- they were even a bit baggy on his now lean frame. Years of not eating resulting in France probably weighing less than England now, it was an odd thought. The frog had always been the bigger of the two, if not in height, in his broad shoulders.

England clambered through the window and made to grab Francis' arm. "No… France, do you really just want to go to some asylum? Have some doctors lock you away?"

"I am too much of a burden on you anyway. You should be happy you do not 'ave to take care of me anymore," the Frenchman murmured quietly, moving away from the Brit's reaching hand. There wasn't any bitterness to his voice and somehow, that jus made Arthur feel worse. _No, that's not true._

"No- no France I was… wrong alright? I was being thick!" Arthur admitted quickly, pulling his hand back and watching Francis carefully. "You can't go."

The Frenchman shook his head, clutching his few possessions to his chest and starting out of the room. "I can and I will. Just take me home Angleterre," he requested quietly, stopping in the doorframe. "Or I will find my way home some other way."

Arthur crossed his arms, frowning at the shadowy figure in the doorway and shaking his head. "I read your journal, the last thing you need is people..."

"Fine," France said curtly, still facing away from Arthur, clinging to his few small possessions. "Then I will find my way back myself." He started out of the doorway again with quick, retreating steps.

"France!" England called quickly, following after the Frenchman and hurrying down the steps to catch up to him. "Fine! If you really want to go fine," he said with a weary sigh, grabbing his coat off of a rack and pulling it on. "I'll take you."

How could Arthur say no? He had betrayed Francis' trust, and he wasn't even sure how to handle the Frenchman himself, he wasn't a doctor. He couldn't do the things for France a real doctor, a real philologist could do – so maybe this was the right thing to do. England could always visit, he could check in on France and make sure the damn frog hadn't completely lost his mind. Yes, this was the right thing to do.

…_Right?_


	4. July 27th

July 27nd, 1945

It had been almost a week since I left Arthur's home.

Over that since I have written in this book. I have simply not had any time to myself, people constantly watching me and talking with me to my great chagrin.

Arthur read my journal; I just couldn't stay there any longer. I had planned to go back to my home, or perhaps the brothel; but Angleterre wouldn't hear of it and he put me **here** instead, admitting me to this hellhole against my will.

Apparently I am a danger to myself and others. I think I was officially admitted under the statement that I was "mentally incompetent to live without constant supervision and medical handling."A doctor's way of saying my family and friends do not want to be burdened with me anymore, I think. The only one who has even had the little time to bother trying to help me was Arthur, but after everything…

Well, I do remember that day rather well, though the edges around my memories still hazy; alcohol and time does to the mind. Angleterre had left to get us food at the nearby town because I refused to eat his cooking. I remember I didn't want to be alone, the thought of it, with my only company my own thoughts terrifies me. I practically begged him to let me come with him and when I did not get my own way, well, I found his treasured stash of whisky hidden under the floorboards of the kitchen… happenstance really.

After forcing down that foul tasting liquid, I remember only feeling worse about everything. I lamented over Arthur leaving- truly I had convinced myself Arthur was never coming back and that idea to me was just unbearable. The thought of me being a problem to others made me want to throw myself off the roof, even though I knew nothing would happen besides breaking a few bones. I had even convinced myself of having made up my whole four years of occupation, that I wasn't abused or harmed, that I was just being a- 'big baby' if I am making out the words correctly.

When Angleterre did return though, I found myself glaring at him and I must have stashed the journal under a shingle- which only makes me question how Arthur found it in the first place- one doesn't just stumble upon a hidden book on a rooftop without looking. After that… I remember yelling and shouting- or was that Angleterre? It is mostly just a blur but whatever did happen, Arthur became much more distant. He asked me a few times to talk to him or to sit with him, but he didn't press too hard when I rejected him. All I did the following few days was lay up in my bed and sleep- the hangover I had seemed to last forever, much longer than most of the ones I've had. It made my stomach sick and I knew it wasn't just the alcohol anymore.

But then… then he found my journal.

And here I am.

My new prison is a simple room. The walls around me are white, as is the twin bed, the small- uncomfortable looking chair, and the desk under the window. For some reason, it unnervingly reminds me of place Ludwig and Gilbert kept me in. Even the tapping has started again; sometimes soft and slow and other times harsh, quick and clapping on the fake tile floor; and **always** echoing through my small room. I have come to associate my multitude doctors now; some men, some women- who come to my room under the guise of offering help.

Most of them seem friendly enough. Except for one of my regular doctors that I have come to know as the young woman with a quick, clacking step and curt speech –I usually never bother to remember my doctor's names. Although… Well, Dr. Brun doesn't try to put on that façade, she tells me everyday that I most likely will stay in this very room for the rest of her life and that I most likely will never be trusted on my own. I think she is a lot of big words and talk with not much to back her up- she cannot be over twenty-five… But even for her young age, I do appreciate her blunt honesty. She doesn't try to make things seem any better and I'm grudgingly grateful for that. If the situation had been different I may have even confided in her as a close friend. Instead I find myself writing in this journal.

The rest of the team of nurses and doctors assigned to me seem to all blend together, just one big mass that says the same thing. Some are old, some are middle-aged, and are some young, like Dr. Brun, as the woman and even from there, more variation occur; short, tall, broad, slender- but no matter what doctor, what nurse; I refuse to meet their eyes or even look at them for too long. I do not want to come to know any of them.

They do try to talk to me- but I have only been abandoned on their front step, they are obligated to speak to me, paid to do it. They pretend to care about me and I am… I am somewhat grateful for company, however fake. I could almost compare them to actors, bluffing about feeling something they don't, trying to incorporate me into their play. But- sometimes it is nice to act along with them, to be part of their act and just let myself get lost in their imaginary world; for a little while at least.

But then I glance to the window outside, and the real world that lies just beyond it, inviting me- and the final curtain falls.

It sits quietly in the middle of one wall to when there is no one else around to keep me company; when no one is there to ask me questions, or to try to force more medication on me. But, no matter how hard I pull, how many times I try- I cannot pry it open. The world outside eludes me but the small amount of light that it does allow to fill the room is just enough to pry into my eyes and wake me up in the morning no matter how much I wish to stay asleep. It's as if the sun is mocking me, not allowing me to be ignorant of what lies just outside of my reach- making me painfully aware of just how trapped I am

One morning though, it wasn't the sun that woke me up, but a small, quiet chirping sound, prompting me to take another look outside my window. Just beyond it, I could see a small birch tree, its blotchy brown and white branches scraping across my window, causing shadows to dance across my room as the wind blew passed- even though I never feel the fresh air against my face. A robin makes its nest just a short distance away among the leaves. It's meshing its home together with small twigs, leaves and its own red plumage. I am content to simply watch, to gaze at what I have wanted for such a long time now. The small robin never looks to me- to busy with its own life- and for once, I am merely an observer for single, quiet moment.

And now I have to credit some AMAZING people that I would not be able to write with~ My dear Twilightrose2 and Dustbunnythumper… Really, you guys are amazing and I don't know what I would do without you! 3


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